


Winter Warriors (Take 2)

by SnowMercury



Category: Warriors - Erin Hunter
Genre: Animal Death (for food), Canon Deaf Character, Canon-Typical Ableism, Canon-Typical Violence, Dissociation, Dissociative Character, Gen, Isolation, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Primary Immunodeficiency, Themes of Being Watched, Written by autistic author, autistic characters, internalized ableism, self-depreciating thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:28:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24100594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnowMercury/pseuds/SnowMercury
Summary: Winters are tough. The snow falls and everything feels cold and distant- and sickness is all the more common. Mistlekit misses her brother, and runs off in the direction the hawk took him. Snowkit lives. Swiftpaw is inspired.So. If you’re in the warriors fandom, you can probably understand why I’m rewriting this, rather than just finishing the version I started before. Everything that was canon in that story doesn’t necessarily stay the same for this one, keep in mind, and I’m definitely doing tons of research on the topics I’m addressing, regardless of if I personally experience them or not! Happy reading
Comments: 5
Kudos: 24





	1. First Frost

She was well versed in loss.

Mistlekit, born to an aging parent, was a quiet kit. She didn't draw others attention, was naturally silent, would often simply be... Overlooked. She wasn't sad about it, no. It was simply a fact of her life. Mistlekit was a dark brown tabby, her eyes were yellow, and she went unnoticed. 

Mistle considered it something of a superpower.

Snowkit, though. Even when he wanted to be left alone, she had watched while the warriors, the adults, would crowd him. Talking, talking so fast and away from him, about him- he would try to watch along, and managed to get a good bit of it, but not enough, often, to follow the threads of conversation. He would get tangled up in the knots of it, but he knew enough to figure out that they saw him as a misstep in the tapestry, a problem knitted so deeply into the fabric he would simply have to be cut out. 

Mistlekit saw this. And she hated it. There weren't many things she felt hate for; with her magic ability to stay out of the eye of others, to not draw attention to herself, she wasn't bothered by others often. She didn't feel the need for it. But Snowkit, and the way he was being treated? Only because he couldn't hear? Anger would tremble in her whiskers, hot and livid like the way sunlight felt through the small shiny thing she had found on the edge of camp the other day. It was focused, this anger. Sometimes it would spill out of her, and she would sharpen her little kitten claws on a discarded piece of bark, letting the roughness tug at her pawpads until it was nothing more than a pile of splinters.

Still, nobody noticed. It was probably a good thing. Nobody noticed her much now, after she had gotten sick. It was maybe something in her breathing, that she always took care to breathe as large as she could- it reminded her that she _could_. 

But none of that solved the problem, which was that all these adults thought they knew so much about Snowkit, knew so much about what he was capable of, when they'd never even talked to him. Most of a cat's language was in their body, after all- in the way they twitch their whiskers, the way they tilt their head and curl their tail. In how puffed up their fur is, the point of their ears, the glint in their eyes. Yes, he would miss the vocal cues. But he could still communicate, and these cats were acting like he wasn't fit for anything but a life as an elder! 

Mistlekit felt that just wasn't right. She would talk with Snowkit about this, too, and he tended to agree. Sometimes he forgot what the adults said, would act like nothing was wrong, like all he needed to do was live his life and he would be an apprentice in no time.

That was how it should have been. 

  
  


Mistlekit had a friend she would talk to, sometimes. Just a whisper, just a ghost, they communicated in the way the leaves bent and the bugs crawled and the breeze blew. She liked to think it was StarClan, sometimes, telling her that there was something special set out for her and her brother. And oh, she wanted that. She wanted to be someone important, who did something wonderful for her clan, maybe even the whole forest!

But, no. She had her super power, her eavesdropping and her oddness. She could always be noticed later, Mistlekit knew. Fireheart didn't even join the clan until he was an apprentice, and everyone seems to think he was pretty important.

So, she would be patient. She would be patient, and kind, and do what she could until then, even if it seemed like it was only her whose emotions just filled them up sometimes, filled her up until she just HAD to show them, somehow, even when everybody else was still. The first time she jumped into a leaf pile, she was worried. It seemed like a lot, and the unknown of what might be crawling in the pile made her paws itch- but then after Swiftpaw had talked her through it, she felt comfortable enough to take a running leap. And the moment she had jumped into the pile, leaves flying everywhere and the sound of crunching breaking fragile leaves underneath her paws, well- she had frozen, some kind of emotion filling her head up to her ears, and she had watched the leaves- so much movement- and she had to stay frozen like that for minutes after they had settled, tail twitching. There was just so much sound, so much movement, so much texture that she became a listener, the world moving through her rather than her taking an active part in it. Even breathing became a struggle, for a bit.

Then she had slowly lowered herself onto the leaves, hearing every single crack and pop of the dried plants beneath her. It was different, from the pokey dried grass that she always avoided. It was softer, less grating, more of something to roll around on. Her brother watched from the side, his eyes focused on the twitch of her tail, the flick of her ears; he knew not to move or upset the leaves below him, not right now.

As she walked back into herself, Mistlekit noticed her mouth was open slightly, the slight hum of something singing through her mouth. As she started to settle down more, became more comfortable and less overwhelmed, it started to go away, but when she felt the nudge of a paw on her shoulder it almost started up again full-force.

"Are you- oh!" She didn't catch what was said next, eyes too focused on her paws, splayed out on the dry, rough, papery material in front of her. It was like a bug's shell, except infinitely more fragile, and she was so, so aware of that. 

After a bit, she had kept on playing; turned over on her back and let her brother bury her in leaves, didn't care when Swiftpaw accidentally stepped on her tail. Her nose was full of the smell of the leaves, vague but so so solid to her, and when she found that familiar itch under her pelt for action or doing things, she would kick her paws up, throwing the leaves back up into the air and watch them fall back down onto her face. It wasn't so bad, when she wasn't expected to be eating the leaves. She would've stayed like that forever, too, she thinks, if Swiftpaw hadn't pulled her out of there around moonhigh. He'd said Speckletail had decided to let her stay there for a bit, but had asked him to get her to bed before moonhigh, so she wouldn't be so overwhelmed the next day. 

So Mistlekit left the leaf pile, but the next day she found herself eavesdropping outside the medicine cat's den, listening to Yellowfang and Cinderpaw reviewing herbs. She still wanted to be a warrior, yes, but something about leaves was just so fascinating to her- the way they curved and tore and what they did. Maybe it was that time Fireheart told her to eat her medicine, that made them stick out so much in her mind. She wasn't sure, she just knew she loved plants, and the nature around her- which was good, because where else would she go?

It wasn't the next day, but that was where she was when it happened. Everything had been normal, settled into a routine of sorts- Mistle would wake up, and go listen to the med cats reviewing the leaves. Then she would go for a walk around camp, watching the warriors and the apprentices going about their day, studying their actions and trying out their words. There was always something new, she saw. And when she grew tired of that, she would retreat back to her little cavern of leaves, snuggle under it while her brother buried her under them again and would sit over her, taking his turn at watching the clan. He spent more time with Speckletail than she did, almost attached to her side in the early morning. Mistle found that fine. They had their own lives and interests, and if he kept bringing Mistle the bugs he found while walking along in the camp, seeing how they’d react to a poke or how their wings and legs worked, so gentle and curious- well. Mistle found that that could be fun, too. Just so long it was during her walk, not during her listening. 

She heard the clamor from the other cats before she knew what was going on. The breath of wings against the air, the sound of feathers- silent, not there. Mistlekit thinks maybe others overexaggerate how they knew the hawk was there. It didn’t cry out beforehand, and it’s wings were as silent as a leaf flipping through the air on it’s journey to the ground. If Mistlekit had been the one in the middle of the camp, she wouldn’t have seen the bird coming either. 

But it reached down like a great big pair of scissors, claws tearing out the patch of the tapestry that held her brother. Snowkit was scooped up, grabbed by the shoulders and the hawk flew off, chased by Swiftpaw and Longtail. Of course, Swiftpaw and Longtail. Swiftpaw had taken to training in the afternoons, and watching Snowkit and Mistlekit at sun high, when she normally took her stroll, and when Snowkit would normally bring her bugs. But no, he hadn’t been watching then- it wasn’t part of the way things worked, him watching in the morning when Snowkit was with mom, not with him. It wouldn’t make sense. 

It also didn’t make sense how that hawk could just reach down and grab Snowkit from the middle of camp. It didn’t make sense how Speckletail cried out, lamenting the loss of her only (only?) kit. He wasn’t dead yet. She wasn’t dead yet. 

Mistlekit felt cold. Maybe her super power wasn’t so much of a good one, anymore. 


	2. False Winter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mistlekit prepares to leave ThunderClan.

“Have you ever heard of cats who can turn into rats?” 

Mistlekit looked over at the other nest in the nursery, seeing the other kit easily despite the darkness. Tawnykit was her name, Mistle remembered. She shook her head, before realizing it might be hard for Tawny to see, so they’d have to communicate vocally.

“No, I hadn’t.”

Tawnykit’s eyes catch the moonlight as she looks over the edge of the nest, claws kneading the moss. “They’re really cool. On the new moon, when StarClan isn’t watching, they turn into these big, huge, humongous rats, with teeth as long as my leg. And if they bite you, you turn into one. Uh, maybe. The apprentices told me all about them.”

Mistlekit is quiet, thinking about what that means to her. “Wow. Have you met one before?”

Tawnykit shakes her head, which Mistle catches from the sound of her fur moving. “No, I don’t think so. We wouldn’t really know, would we? Because they’re either a cat or a weird rat, and Thunderclan doesn’t hunt rats, not usually.” 

Mistle freezes up almost, and her eyes widen, and she stares down at her paws. “There was a rat on the pile earlier this moon. Mom ate it. Do you think…”

She doesn’t see so much as hear Tawnykit’s gasp, and her leaning forward out of her nest. Mistle could almost envision Tawnykit, half spilling out of the mossy nest. “Are you a ratcat?!”

Mistlekit thinks back. She didn’t feel any different, but then again, how would she know? The new moon hasn’t shown up yet. She says as much to Tawnykit, who takes a second before responding.

“Well, we just have to set up a plan then. And you have to bite me, like on the paw or something, so we can both be ratcats if you are a ratcat. Not now though, my mom would wake up. Because it’s important for ratcats to be with family, because rats are always in swarms, right? You never see just one.” Tawnykit says this with stunning confidence that leads Mistlekit to believe she’s actually seen a swarm of rats, despite Tawnykit having never been out of camp, same as Mistlekit. “And since we’re family, that means we wouldn’t be alone.” 

Mistlekit stays quiet a moment, still looking down at the moss in her own nest. She’s still half tucked-in to her mother’s side, and she can feel Snowkit’s breathing from where he’s curled up next to her. Even more than that, she Knows Snowkit, with a capital k. They understand each other more than Speckletail understands them half the time, not because she doesn’t care, but simply because she doesn’t seem to see the world the same way they do. Family isn’t only blood, Mistle thinks, but it’s a good starting point.

“Yeah. You aren’t alone if you’re with family.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


She still saw it in her mind’s eye. The shadow over the camp, the fast-moving thing in the sky reaching down like the paw of StarClan, scooping up her brother and gone just as fast as it had shown. This wasn’t a friendly paw, either- it had claws out, and though it left no blood behind, Snowkit’s fur was light enough that she saw the pomegranate red.

It felt like a movie. Even looking back, Mistlekit doesn’t think she would have been able to move if she tried, paws made of anthills and eyes drinking everything in like a stork at the river. She knew it had happened, yes, but - surely not to her? Surely not to her brother? Snowkit was  _ family _ , not even distant like Swiftpaw and Tawnykit and Bramblekit, who tried to understand, she knew, but there was always a line of difference. There was always a nuance she was missing with them. But not with Snowkit, which was why he couldn’t be gone, except- 

There was a hole in the tapestry, torn with blank mindless mechanical claws. There was no reason, no thought, no care, not that life had to give one but she had always found the little meanings of the big things and the big meanings of the little things. A dead mouse on the fresh-kill pile had once had a birthmark, directly over it’s left leg. It was a spot of white in an otherwise grey pelt, and the next morning they had had an early frost. She hadn’t told anybody. It was a secret meant for her, not for the clan. A gift. 

The gaping strings around her were not a gift. 

Bluestar took it as a sign (couldn’t she see how devastated everybody was? This wasn’t a sign, StarClan wouldn’t do that, wouldn’t murder a kit simply to make a point. The warriors of the stars were still  _ warriors _ , they still had a code to follow), that StarClan was displeased. 

Speckletail took it as a sign (was she really and truly invisible? Did her mother not see her, walking behind her, when she moved quietly and unseeing to the elder’s den? There was still one kit there to grieve with, if there really was cause to grieve. Snowkit was strong, Mistlekit knew. Snowkit would live), and retired to the elder’s den. 

Swiftpaw walked back into the camp at sun-down, tail brushing the grass behind him and lungs aching with chilling snowsmoke. Neither thing was meant for lungs, you know, and neither wanted to stay inside them for very long. They clogged his throat as he tried to speak, leaving no words to say. 

Mistlekit was made of ash. Not just that she would crumble away, or that she was fragile- but that she was a facsimile of a cat, build up in the shape of one, grey and trembling and weak to the wind. Leaving bits of herself wherever she walked. 

Nobody came to pull her from the leaf pile that night. 

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  


“Quiet, Mistle! You’re going to wake up the rest of the clan!”

Mistle held her breath for a moment, then spoke. Her right paw still ached from slipping on the clump of dirt, but she was fine. “Sorry. I couldn’t see.”

Tawnykit jumps forward, rustling through the grass. Her paws move like a spider on a spiderweb- so at home in nature, in the messes and tangles, somehow avoiding tripping on all the roots and patches that Mistlekit keeps slipping into and falling over. “That’s okay. It is the new moon after all, its hard to see.” 

Tawnykit isn’t very suited for the day, Mistlekit thinks. But that’s okay. She isn’t really, either, not with all the noise and the rustling. There’s still sound at night, but it’s quieter, and somehow Mistle feels like she might be more seen in the shadows than in the daylight. Sometimes it’s nice to have a big family. Someone is bound to understand you.

“The Apprentices’ Training Clearing should be right up ahead, Brightpaw told me, and we can wait there. I can’t wait to be a rat, they seem so ferocious from the stories the warriors and elders talk about! And smart too!”

For someone who had just told Mistle to be quiet, Tawnykit sure seems to be talking a lot. But Mistlekit doesn’t hold it against her. They are further from camp, and Mistle is honestly really excited too- her tailtip is twitching from side to side like a snake’s tongue tasting the air. “I can’t wait either. We’re going to be back before our moms know we’re gone, though, right?”

Tawnykit looks back to Mistlekit, head tilted to the side for a moment. “Well, yeah, hopefully. But what if we are ratcats?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, if we are ratcats, you know the stories! The other cats chase them out, because they’re all ferocious and have teeth that don’t stop growing, and they’re dangerous during the new moon, because they’re- em.. emissh.. emissaries of the Dark Forest, or something like that.” Tawnykit jumps up on a fallen branch, walking along it while speaking, almost stumbling as it tilts from side to side. Mistlekit’s mouth is drier now, and her tail stills.

“Oh. Maybe we just don’t tell anybody, then.” She isn’t sure she wants to be a ratcat, if she’d be chased out of ThunderClan. Cats who are chased out of ThunderClan never seem to have a happy end in the stories. 

Tawnykit doesn’t respond beyond a slight hum. The world lightens up only slightly around them soon, exposing the lack of undergrowth and the big, tall, broken tree in front of them. It is still fairly dark, shadows draped over the world like a cape on a king. The moon is nothing but the absence of, overhead.

“We’re here.”

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Mistlekit was fascinated by leaves. She was, possibly more so, fascinated by what they could do, which was a lot. They could heal cuts, help heal broken bones, keep infection inside and out far away, they could even fight the sleepiness that she saw in Bluestar’s movements, sometimes. They were powerful.

She didn’t want to be a medicine cat, no. Mistlekit loved the feeling of rushing through a play battle, of using her claws, of fighting for something for her family and friends and those close to her. She was strong, and while medicine was important, food and water and shelter were all important as well, far more regularly for most. She knew which path her paws would walk down. 

But maybe she liked to listen in on the medicine cats talking about their stores regardless. Nothing said she couldn’t learn a bit more about herbs and ways to heal, too. And it was a good thing she had.

It was the dark of night (she couldn’t sleep, not with her nursery nest cold and alone and empty, both her mother and brother elsewhere) when she entered the medicine cat den, careful not to disturb more than she would need for traveling. Something to lessen hunger, something to take with her to heal and stop infection (the image of pomegranate red stuck in her mind moreso than the white of Snowkit’s fur, now), and something for her health. She didn’t want to slow down the journey by getting so sick she couldn’t move, again. And if she had some leaves with her already, to show Snowkit in case he needed to get them, well, then all the better. 

The night is silent around her as she leaves the medicine cat den, herb leaves held loosely between her chin and chest, carefully held so she doesn’t drop any of them and so she can still watch the ground. If she were familiar with the concept, she would describe it as the path of a tightrope, wobbly and important and so, so easy to fall from. 

She’s focusing so much she almost walks right into the black and white apprentice that shows up in front of her.

“Mistlekit, where are you going? What are- are those medicine herbs?!” She doesn’t look up at him, thankful for the herbs giving her the excuse, but she looks to the side anyways. 

“I have to rescue him.” She doesn’t say who. She knows he knows who she’s talking about. 

“......Oh.” Swiftpaw leans backwards a bit, she can hear the grass when he does so. “That’s… Very brave of you. But we don’t even know if he’s alive, and I’m sure I can convince Bluestar to send out a longer patrol to look for him, you don’t need to-“

“Yes I do. She won’t go looking for him, you know that. He’s just an omen to her now. Mom doesn’t even remember me, either, and you’re one of the only cats who’s actually been- been! I can’t- agh!” The words get caught in her throat when she tries to speak them, gravelly and full of sand and the weight and shape of a bone. Her tail is almost lashing, and her paws are trembling with the effort it’s taking not to let her herbs fall. “I’m the- the only one who can- who can go. You know.” I’m not stupid just because I’m oblivious sometimes, she thinks. You know I’ve thought this through, she doesn’t say. They’re settled in her chest as emotions, not as words, as much as she tries to do magic to get them to turn into what she wants them to. 

And Swiftpaw, Swiftpaw gets it. He regards her with worry, she thinks, because that seems like something he would do, and then moves to back away, letting her pass. “The hawk carried him towards the mountain. If you can’t find him, you’re always welcome back here.” 

Mistlekit nods, and continues her path out of camp, not once looking up at him. She doesn’t mention the pain the idea of coming back after brings her. She wouldn’t be able to bear it, showing up and having everyone not even notice she was gone. Not again. 

* * *

  
  


It is cold, outside of the Nursery. The clearing doesn’t have any outcroppings or places to hide, just grass and that tall, tall tree, claws scraping the sky like they’re searching for the moon that’s gone. The stars still blink down at them, watching, and Mistlekit wishes she felt comforted by them like she’s supposed to, but she only feels… Stared at. 

Tawnykit is sitting next to her, the both of them huddled for warmth. It’s hard to tell what time of night it is, with the moon missing, but Mistle doesn’t feel like it’s been long. Tawny’s words haven’t been making sense either, recently, the same way Goldenflower mumbles a nonsense song when she’s falling asleep to help her kits do the same. 

Mistlekit turns away to watch the rest of the clearing, ears tilted back as she closes her own eyes. Not to go to sleep, she reassures herself. Just to rest her eyes. To better be able to feel. Because she does feel like her teeth are getting longer, or sharper. It does feel like her ears are rounding, her muzzle growing, her paws becoming more spread and articulated. Is it her imagination, or are her whiskers twitching more, too? Is it just her? 

She hears no sounds from Tawnykit next to her. There’s a loose feeling, rugged and ragged and sharp and dull both at the same time in the top of her chest, and buried behind her eyes. When she opens them and looks to Tawnykit, there is nothing different about her friend, who is simply sleeping on the grass. No, Mistlekit is alone in this, she is sure. 

A strange emotion seizes her midsection then, one she would describe as blue and grey and icy and otherwise completely unknowable even to herself. Mistlekit snuggles closer to Tawnykit, afraid to look at her own paws, and resolves to never try this again. Then she, too, drifts to sleep.

  
  
  


It is sunny when she wakes up. The birds are singing overhead, and she hears something a moment before a paw gently shakes her awake. For a moment she could swear it was her own mom, but opening her eyes casts that aside- Goldenflower sits, leaning over her and Tawnykit, ears back and tail twitching. 

“What were you two thinking? I’ve been worried sick- do you know how dangerous it is for two kits to wander out of the camp like that? I- anything could have happened, and we wouldn’t have even known to protect you!” Mistlekit looks down and to the side, tensing up. Tawnykit has already stood up, and is speaking to her mother, but Mistlekit can barely hear her past the rushing in her ears. There’s nothing but fuzz between then and when she starts walking back to camp with them, ears and paws and tail tingling, full of ants as always. 

She watches as Goldenflower’s tail touches Tawnykit’s reassuringly, and notices the glance that Goldenflower gives her. Mistlekit isn’t sure what she means by it, but she’s sure it’s nothing good. 

When they get back to camp, Bramblekit, Snowkit, Swiftpaw, and Longtail are waiting. Bluestar isn’t waiting, but she does give the two kittens a very specific look that makes Mistlekit’s paws go cold. 

But Speckletail, she notices, is not looking. She barely seems to have noticed something was off.

It doesn’t feel as warm in camp as it did the day before. Mistlekit chalks this up to the night sleeping out of the nursery, exposed to the steadily growing chillier air. That’s what it has to be, after all. Nothing else could explain it.

  
  
  


As Tawnykit and her are both laying in their nursery beds, supposedly catching up on lost sleep, Tawnykit whispers to her. 

“I’m glad we’re not ratcats. It seems kinda silly now to think about it, too. I’m glad to just be a cat.”

Mistlekit doesn’t share her own experience, remembering what Tawny said about how ratcats were treated by those who weren’t one. Instead, she nods. “I’m glad too.” It wasn’t silly, she thinks, but she doesn’t voice it. Instead, the two kittens simply curl up on their own. Tawnykit once again falls asleep easily, but Mistlekit finds herself looking up at the ceiling of the nursery, simply watching. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


Mistlekit is almost out of sight of the camp when she drops her herbs. She doesn’t swear, because she is too young to swear and there are some rules she follows very closely, but she does come close. Instead, she looks to the other leaves around her and notices a large large orange maple leaf, only barely beginning to turn crackly and breaking. It doesn’t take her long to wrap up the herbs in it, much more secure now that they aren’t loose, and then she turns to leave- but hesitates. 

She turns back to look at camp. Swiftpaw is there, at the entrance, watching her go. She can’t tell his expression from here, but she thinks he might be worried. But, there’s nothing she can do about that, not really, so she only nods to him and then turns. Turns towards the mountains, still visible over the trees. 

The life of a ratcat is a lonely one, after all. They live mostly only with family, and hers is far, far away. 

  
  



	3. The Eye of the Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snowkit, and his time in the mountains.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter TWs;  
> animal death (for the purpose of food, but still), warriors canon-typical and internalized ableism (largely microaggressions/only implications), dissociation, self-depreciating thoughts, themes of being watched & isolation
> 
> Big thanks to Ron @butchsun, viv @avatarofthebeholding, and angel @ofdreamsanddoodles for helping me with editing this!!! all those @s are on tumblr btw!

Something seizes his shoulders. It digs in, roots itself beneath his skin, rendering his front legs and chest immobile and with not nearly enough room to breathe. 

Pins and needles. 

The rest of his world gets smaller and smaller, and as he watches them watching him, running after him, shouting uselessly, he is surprisingly calm. There is no panic lounging in his lungs, only a sense of inevitability and relaxation. Some part of his mind is screaming, gnashing it’s teeth and biting the legs of the hawk, but it is not him. No, this is exactly what he expected. Exactly what his clanmates expected.

And between pins and needles, between a far off experience and internal distance, between here and not-here, he rests in the icicles left to him for a nest. He has never even seen winter. 

  
  


It isn’t much later (or is it hours?) that he opens his eyes again. He finds himself no longer in the grasp of claws, but in a drift of snow. Or, that is what he assumes— it is light, and fluffy, and white, and moving— his legs tense again of their own accord, and he watches as some furless, feathered creature with boggled bug-eyes and wrinkly skin erupts from the pile. 

He is running before he fully registers that this thing must be a bird of some kind, before he checks which direction he is running in. It is sheer luck that turns him in the direction of the cliffside he has found himself on, rather than off into the great expanse on the other side. 

There— he dives into the crack in the stone, with all the grace of a kid falling on a slip and slide. Grace does not matter when he is running for his life, when he feels more than sees the impact the bird chasing him has with the hard rock, air displaced onto him and darkness enveloping like a hug.

He is hidden here, hidden and in plain sight as always. Just in a more physical way than it has been.

Snowkit decides he should probably take stock of his surroundings. There is a thin trickle of water and moss on one side of the cave wall— how lucky is he, that this cavern widened up inside rather than narrowing further? What a horror story that would have been. He still barely has enough room to move around, the space’s size being roughly two of him in any given direction— smaller than the bird that carried him here, he thinks.

The water trickles down into a crack in the stone, rather than pooling up. This room is fragile. It reminds him of all the holes in the Nursery at home.

He might be able to work with this. Just until the creatures leave. Just until.

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


The roof of the Nursery twinkles, and he is curled up in the long golden fur of his mother. Mistlekit is next to him, and all he can see when he looks up is the legacy he comes from.

The stars watch. Distant, testing- he feels their eyes like the pinprickle of a raspberry bush, deceptively velvety, tingly even in their pain.

He knows they do not mean harm. There is a voice inside him, telling him all will be well and that life will have this comfort forever. That he will always have his sister and his mother with him, soft and calm and  _ home _ . There is something about knowing people who are willing to talk to you in your language, who are willing to pause to let you understand, who know when the world is too much and there are too many scents and smells and sensations around him. 

He feels the rumble of his mother’s purr under his side, large and enveloping. This, he thinks, must be what Starclan feels like. He can feel Mistlekit’s smaller purr next to him as well. Hers is sharper, it does not shake her whole body like Speckletail’s does. She is too small for that, purr too young. 

He is not purring. He has started to, but he keeps feeling the raindrops of Starclan’s vision running up his back, skittering like centipede legs. 

Surely, though, that is a comfort. Surely it is a comfort to know you are watched over, that you will be safe.

Surely.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  


The smell is what gets to him first. Musty, dusty, and trite. He finds himself glad that the water does not pool in this cave, in this crack in the wall. If it did, he would have been worried about mold- Snowkit had seen mold, fungus, starting to grow a few times on the bark toys near the Nursery. The warriors had usually taken note and buried them, or taught the kits how to bury them. There was- something about not using your mouth to pick them up? Snowkit isn’t sure; the memory flits out of his grasp from that point. 

He almost doesn’t notice the cricket. Not until it hops out right in front of him — how long had he been still, just laying there? Not like there was much for him to do, but oh, how he wished there was  _ something _ . He understood what Mistlekit said now, about paws itching for something to do. 

The cricket chirrups, he assumes. Snow watches the legs move, anyways, as he shifts into a crouching position, gaze held steady on the bug.

It doesn’t hop away, doesn’t move before he pounces, landing on it and capturing it. Catching bugs — that had always been one of his favorite games back at home. 

He looks down at the bug, held between paws. It’s antennae are whirling in the air, circling. Circling. 

Snowkit’s stomach rumbles. He hasn’t eaten yet today. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


There are too many. They are crowding him. The warriors overhead of him, talking and talking and talking about  _ him _ , talking  _ over _ him. It is not the first time that this has happened, and they do not know it, but he can feel how they move around him, can feel in the twitch of his whiskers when their yowls and arguments get louder.

It’s been months since he’s tried to understand them. They always go too fast, using verbal substitutes for words perfectly signable and conveyed in action.  ~~ It would be good things, anyways, wouldn’t it? They wouldn’t just speak about him like a thing, so they must be saying good things.  ~~

He is used to being watched, by this point. Watched and coddled.  ~~ They’re only supporting him. He should be grateful for that. What good warriors. ~~ He can’t leave camp; not even the other kits want to try to explore with him. Snowkit saw how Mistlekit and Tawnykit left camp the other night, went off on their own- they hadn’t invited him. Bramblekit had looked at him weirdly when he’d suggested it, body language conveying what he thought of that idea. 

“You’re mouse-brained.” Bramble rolled his eyes next, looking away towards the adult watching Snowkit now. Goldenflower. “All the time, warriors watch you. Why risk it?” 

The feeling had dripped down the back of his throat, tickling as his eyes grew hot and his tongue cold. He almost couldn’t believe his eyes at what Bramblekit had signed, but he had signed it all the same. And the worst part was that Snowkit understood why, on some level. Understood that the way the warriors treated him wasn’t typical for a kit, or for an apprentice, or for any average warrior. No, he was singled out for this. 

It didn’t make the others excluding him hurt any less. At the end of that conversation, Snowkit had given a shaky nod, an ‘I understand’, and had walked away. 

Goldenflower’s eyes followed him, not Bramblekit. 

She offered a smile when he turned towards her more openly. She watched when he looked back to Bramblekit, who gave him an over-exaggerated face, chin jutting out and ears back, tail tilted.  _ See? _ He was saying.  _ Look. _

Snowkit knew. So what he had done was go and lay by the leaf pile, paws kneading the ground for a few minutes before even they stilled. He closed his eyes. 

He closed his eyes.

He closed his eyes, when the movement was too much. When he didn’t want to see. No, he was fine. He was fine. He was  _ fine _ , would they just stop  _ asking _ ? Would they learn to ask when he was hurt, and not when he was just trying to chase a butterfly or take a nap? 

The brush of a familiar pelt next to him made his eyes shoot open, taking a calming breath in. Swiftpaw. Swiftpaw stood next to him, fur puffed up and face twisted as he hissed at the adults around Snow, tail lashing. It wrapped around Snow, hiding him from the view of the others as they backed off, moving their discussion somewhere else.

He was trembling. When had that started? 

Swiftpaw looked down at him, expression concerned. For a moment, Snowkit would have sworn he had asked “Are you alright?”, and the thought sent a wave of nausea over him- but no. When Swiftpaw repeated himself, using his tail to gesture towards Snowkit when appropriate, Snowkit felt some of his angry sea of emotion calm. No, Swiftpaw had asked “What do you need?”. 

He took an unsteady breath, sitting up more, lifting his paws to cover his eyes for a moment. “Darkness. No movement.” He paused, feeling ashamed of his next request. He should be used to it by now, but when his paw touched to the base of his throat, Swiftpaw’s eyes took on an understanding gleam. “No voices.” He couldn’t take knowing they were talking about him behind his back again, to his face, but just too fast for him to understand, in a language purposefully pointed against him.

Swiftpaw nodded. “Okay. Want to be carried?” Snowkit glanced back down to the ground for a moment before looking up to him again. He wasn’t sure he could move from his spot right now, and the small amount of coverage it gave him. 

“Please?” Swiftpaw nodded, and leaned forward, picking up Snowkit by his ruff, carrying him over to the Nursery and setting him down in one of the nests, before covering him with some leftover moss and then curling around him.

Snowkit closed his eyes, let himself drift as he laid next to his family. One of his paws was placed against Swift’s foreleg, simply reminding himself that Swiftpaw was still there. He was almost asleep when he looked up to Swiftpaw, tapping on his arm.

“Why did you help me?” Snowkit signed when Swiftpaw looked down at him, hoping his expression showed enough of his confusion and wasn’t as tired-looking as he felt. 

Swiftpaw smiled. “You’re family. I don’t want you to hurt.” There is a pause. “Sometimes, they treat me the same.”

Snowkit yawned, and nodded again. It felt different to the last conversation he’d had that ended with a nod. It felt warmer. He hoped Swiftpaw wouldn’t get in trouble with the adults for how he had hissed at them. For what he had said, for saying it so Snowkit could understand too. For being someone who knew what he had gone through.

* * *

  
  


Insects weren’t cutting it. They were rare, and far between. And the birds had not left.

Snowkit peeks out of the crack in the wall, tail twitching as he watches the hawk lean over one of their kids, dropping a mouse into the nest. He watches as one of the chicks tears at it, as one of them tries to steal it, as the third waits listlessly to the side closest to the nest. It had eaten its fill already, and was taking the time to take in its surroundings.

It spots Snowkit. 

Its beak opens, and Snowkit backs up further into the cave— and just in time too, because a full set of talons digs into the crack in the next few seconds, harsh black daggers waving through the air in front of him. It doesn’t reach him, grasping at nothing, and pulls back, replaced with a large eye. 

He sees the chance. He takes it. His claws, already unsheathed, dash forward, striking the bird right in the face. It rears back, leaving the crack in the wall light and unobscured once again.

It is a long time before Snowkit feels like he could look out of the cave again. It is almost strange when he does. 

The hawk is gone, and the chicks are sleeping. The one that had called out is spread out, head resting on the side of the nest’s wall. 

Snowkit’s stomach grumbles again. Insects wouldn’t work forever.

He assumes his paws are silent, because nothing moves in the nest as he makes his way closer to it. 

Insects wouldn’t work forever.

He stands over the chick, staring down at it, claws unsheathed. He lifts one paw, holding it over the chick’s neck, sees the way it flexes and his claws would poke out a tad bit more. 

Insects wouldn’t work forever.

He eats well that night.

* * *

“Alright, Snowkit, what games do you want to play today?” Brightpaw curled her tail around her paws after she finished signing, watching Snowkit for his response. Snowkit paused to think, considering— there were a good many options, and it was hard to choose from them sometimes. 

Then a thought sprang into his head and he smiled, crouching down before hopping upwards twice. “Grasshopper Chase! Grasshopper Chase!” 

Brightpaw smiled, crouching down herself and wiggling her tail, shifting her weight as she prepares to pounce. “Then hop, grasshopper!”

Snowkit laughed, turning and leaping forward. The rules of Grasshopper Chase were simple; only hopping was allowed, by the chaser or the chasee. When the chaser successfully tackled the other to the ground, that was when they switched sides. Admittedly, it was easier for Snowkit to be the chaser, but he knew he had to get good at running away from things bigger than himself without looking back all the time, to be a warrior. Everybody tripped up when they looked back over their shoulders to see if the creature chasing was still there. 

The way the grasshopper won was by managing to tackle someone else to be the grasshopper. It worked out pretty often, and he could usually get the warriors to play along for at least as long as it took for them to tackle someone else- as long as he avoided the grumpy ones. 

Springing forward more, dodging around the freshkill pile, Snowkit leaped forward underneath Brackenfur, who was choosing a piece of prey to eat. He noticed Brackenfur jump up in surprise out of the corner of his eye, but kept jumping forward, feeling the wind and grass on his whiskers.

_ There! _ Swiftpaw was walking out of the Apprentice’s den, slowly, like he had just woken up and hadn’t gotten the chance to stretch yet. Snowkit shifted his aim, darting towards Swiftpaw, noticing when his ears suddenly perked up and he turned to face him— no, to look behind him. But it’s too late to look back, Snowkit has already taken the final leap— he tumbles into Swiftpaw, knocking him to the ground with a smile.

But Swiftpaw doesn’t smile back. No, he’s wincing, every movement feather-light, as he moves to sit up fully. Snowkit is worried then, and leans forward to look up at him, where Swiftpaw is now grooming his chest. 

“You okay, Swiftpaw?” Snowkit’s paws hesitate on Swiftpaw’s name, an accidental stutter. A shadow falls over Snowkit next, Brightpaw leaning forward to inspect Swiftpaw for herself, whiskers tilted forward in concern. 

Swiftpaw takes a deep breath— what looks like it  _ should _ be a deep breath—, but is interrupted halfway through, pointedly stopped. He looks to Brightpaw first, then to Snowkit, and then almost visibly sighs, still tense and scrunched together rather than relaxing. 

“Snowkit, I should tell you something.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


The parent hawk mourned their child. The clawmarks over their left eye were now almost healed, by the time Snow thinks to look. He doesn’t know what to think of it. 

He does know he shouldn’t leave any bits of the chick to waste. He shouldn’t play with them, either. No, he follows the Warrior’s Code, because he will be a warrior, someday, somehow. 

He arranged their bones neatly, in the small space he has, at the back of the cave. If he could, he would have buried them, but he has no idea how far out the hawk goes and how fast they return, and to be caught unawares outside his little cave would be a death sentence. And he still has hope. He still has hope he will see his family again, will see his mother and sisters and nephew and niece again. He wants to practice his battle moves with Brackenfur again, wants to play with Brightpaw and Swiftpaw and ask Cloudpaw for tips on how to hide his bright white fur.

It goes deeper than want. He  _ needs _ to see his family again. He needs to see Mistlekit again, Speckletail again. He needs to have another comfy night in the family nest, curled up and counting stars and guessing which star was which warrior. To be staring back at the sky, when it stares down on him so often.

This cave doesn’t have glowworms. There is no path to Mothermouth, or to the Moonstone, not in this Highstone. Snow is curled around himself, paws tucked under to keep them warm, forced by the size and shape of the cave to stare directly at the bones of the hatchling. 

His eyes are closed. The air is cold, and the fur on his back — even puffed up — does little to help. So he turns to face the exact opposite direction— out the entrance of the cave.

The parent hawk is on their nest, keeping their two hatchlings warm as they all settle down for the night. Their feathers are long and regal — a sharp contrast to their two chicks’ down, which is so light and puffy anything could see them if they managed to climb this high.

They are twin spotlights, easily seen if you have the right vantage point.

In the end, Snowkit turns back towards the hatchling’s bones. It is more comforting than the sight of the hawks.

  
  
  


* * *

Swiftpaw looks down to Snowkit, expression calm. Brightpaw sits next to him, tail curled to cover her paws- until Swift looks to her, paws moving only in small symbols. “Would you please get me a piece of freshkill? And...” She nods, understanding, and he signs thank you.

Once she gets up and starts towards the pile, Swiftpaw turns back to Snowkit, cringing only as he does so. He starts to sign.

“Snowkit. Ever, have you… Felt so stiff your bones hurt? After you’ve slept, or laid still for a long time.” Snowkit can’t remember a time. He’s fallen asleep on a paw before, and woken up to it feeling like he had dunked it in ice and was being tickled by a bunch of ants, but it wasn’t the same thing, he didn’t think. So he shakes his head.

Swiftpaw nods, continuing to sign slowly. “Sometimes, it happens to me. A lot, actually. It makes it harder to move around, because it just hurts, not from a wound or a sickness or something you can heal from. Or see.” 

He sighs, closing his eyes for only a moment. “I don’t blame you for not knowing. But when I am in pain, playing games that move fast is hard.”

Snowkit can’t blame him. For a moment he realizes just how it must have felt- how it must  _ feel— _ , wanting to join in on activities but kept from it by something bigger than himself. By someone else refusing to change to accommodate you. He remembers how Swiftpaw has always been careful to not let Snowkit feel excluded for his Deafness, and feels a momentary pang of guilt that he didn’t think to do the same for Swiftpaw— but this isn’t about him, is it? It isn’t about Snowkit’s guilt, or mistake; this is because he can do better, and Swiftpaw sees that. 

Snowkit nods, purring comfortingly, and leans forward to affectionately headbutt Swiftpaw before pausing at the last moment, looking up to Swiftpaw, who nods almost imperceptibly. Then Snowkit leans forward against his family, purring. 

“I’m sorry. I’ll do better. Thank you for telling me.” He still has his fear of purring, he still hates the feeling of being watched and in the spotlight. But this isn’t an expression of happiness, it is one of comforting, one that shows that he wishes Swiftpaw didn’t have to experience that, and that he hopes this flare goes away soon. 

They sit there like that for a moment, until Snowkit notices a new shadow and turns to look over at Brightpaw. She is holding a mouse, a strange purple flower, and a single chunk of bark. Brightpaw goes to set them down but pauses, instead tilting her head towards a nearby patch of sunlight on the grass in question. Swiftpaw nods, and they both make their way over to it, Snowkit trailing just a bit behind.

Once Swiftpaw and Brightpaw are situated, Snowkit sits down next to them, looking curiously at the flower and the bark. Swift notices, and offers a smile.

“Do you want me to tell you the story of Shadow’s Claw and Thunder’s Blood?” At Snowkit’s ensuing nod, Swiftpaw starts to sign something but stops, movements changing. “Is it alright if Brightpaw translates?” He doesn’t explain why, but Snowkit has noticed how his signing is slower than usual. Snow nods, and looks to Brightpaw, who smiles and starts to translate Swiftpaw’s next words.

“Shadow’s Claw,” the flower is gestured to, “is a remnant of when Shadowstar walked the territories. She lost a lot of her family, and missed them greatly. However, when she was visiting where her brother was killed, someone tried to kill  _ her _ . So she started to search the clans on her own, looking for the cat that tried to murder her and had murdered her family.

And she found her- a member of a rogue group, who wanted to steal land from the clans. The leader of the rogue group wanted to protect the murderer, so a battle broke out. In the end, both the murderer and Shadowstar died, losing her last life. 

With this last life, Shadowstar’s claws curling up to StarClan were passed onto a nearby flower, leaving a reminder to the clans to be vigilant.”

Snowkit nods slowly, looking to the flower. It looks harsh and curved, and he saw the roots still attached underneath it. It was very large- possibly even as large as him!

The bark was gestured to next, and Snowkit leans forward a bit, seeing the sap still attached to the bark. He sniffs it a bit, keeping Brightpaw within his view so he could see the translation.

“And this, this is the bark of the Thunder’s Gift tree. Thunder was a noble cat; he fought for what was right. His favorite tree over time took on healing properties, which is where the Thunder’s Gift tree comes from.”

Swiftpaw pauses there, then continues, Brightpaw translating. “I’ve heard a different story, though. That Thunder felt ache in his bones as well, and that StarClan gave his favorite tree the properties so he could fight for what was right without as much pain as before. I like the idea that both are true.”

Snowkit nods, looking up to Swiftpaw. He moves forward, slowly, gingerly, and careful of Swiftpaw’s legs. Snowkit then lays down, curling up next to the apprentice, not sure what else to say.

He is afraid of the spotlight, that is sure. And this sunbeam, filtered by the leaves above, it is most certainly a spotlight. But, he resolves, he can’t let his fear affect when he shows his family that he loves them. And so Snowkit starts purring again, closing his eyes and feeling Swiftpaw’s answering purr. 

Swiftpaw shifts at times, eating or talking to Brightpaw, Snow assumes. The sun overhead delivers warmth to the trio, and Snow momentarily thanks it, before he drifts off to sleep.

He is a kit. He can trust others to watch over him, if he falls asleep. Much as he doesn’t want to, he knows he can.

  
  


* * *

  
  


The first hatchling only lasts Snowkit so long. Food spoils after a few days, even in the cold air typical of the mountaintop. 

  
  


It isn’t like there’s any meat left of the chick by then, anyways. Only the bones he had already removed and feathers, the beak, things he couldn’t eat. 

He knows he needs to hunt again, before he gets too weak to lift his paws, and he sets up watch at the entrance to his little cave. Waiting. Ready, watching for when the hawk leaves and the hatchlings are sleeping.

But it does not happen.

Day after day passes (how long has he been up here by now? A whole moon? At least he knows he can still leave the cave, if that can be said to be a good thing. He should be growing bigger still). 

Every time the hawk leaves, the chicks are awake, watching. 

Snowkit watches, dread continuing to pool in his stomach as day by day goes by. He can’t wait. This isn’t the sort of hopeful excitement that ‘can’t wait’ is normally accompanied by. No, this is a quiet dread. A sense of time running out, slipping through his paws, pulling away.

Insects cannot fill his stomach anymore, if they ever could. Maybe he was just lying to himself. Telling himself that it was alright, even when it ultimately wasn’t.

Snowkit is the one who leaves the cave, eventually, claws sheathed but ready to shear life from the living. The hawk is gone, and based on his watching, will not return until the sun turns greatly in the sky. 

And the hatchlings are awake. Watching. They can run around the nest now, flap their wings. Their claws are sharp, as sharp as his at least.

The situation calls for sharp claws from the young, after all.

Snowkit lifts his body up onto the edge of the nest, the pokey rough texture of the nest beneath him feeling softer than the situation. One chick has shrunk down, beak open and tilting from side to side. The other chick, the one closer, is standing up, wings slightly open. They look like a roadrunner, with the way their fluff bunches over their birdy, scaly legs. 

Snowkit takes a step into the nest. The first chick takes a step back. 

They stare at each other, Snowkit watching. His gaze is not just that of hunger, but of defiance, of admittance, of acceptance. It is not cruel. He is just trying to survive, same as the hatchlings and the hawk. There is no fault to be found in the situation, no reason to it. No great meaning he has to learn. 

The rubber band snaps. The hatchling turns and runs for the edge of the nest, wings spread wide and starting to leap. Snowkit jumps first, landing squarely on the back of the hatchling, knocking the bird forward and snapping their neck on the corner angle of the nest. They die immediately, and he carries their body back to his cave, leaving one hatchling left in the nest.

  
  


He adds their bones to another small pile, next to the first. He makes sure to give thanks to StarClan for providing life, although Snowkit can’t quite bring himself to sign all the words. 

He isn’t the one with blank adoration for StarClan, no. 

* * *

  
  


Smiling, Snowkit’s tail flicks back and forth as he watches the cat in the middle of the circle, Cloudpaw. He waits carefully for the next moment, weight on his hind legs so he can more easily play. 

Cloudpaw points to Brightpaw, who quickly falls into a crouch while Snow and Swiftpaw each place the back of their paws on either of her sides, claws unsheathed so they look like spines pointing out. Cloudpaw nods, turning to look through the rest of the circle. He stops at Mistlekit — but he isn’t looking at her, but over her shoulder. Snow looks behind himself, spotting Bramblekit and Tawnykit walking by. Someone must call out to them, because they both stop and look at the group. 

Excited by the prospect for more players — the Porcupine Game is more fun the more players you have, because you know even less who’s going to be chosen next — , Snow quickly asks them. “Want to play?”

He doesn’t miss Bramblekit’s expression. Nor does he miss how his response is completely vocal, with minimal body language in it. Snowkit doesn’t miss how Tawnykit turns, walks away with Bramblekit. 

Snowkit jumps at a light touch on his shoulder, turning to see Brightpaw. 

“Sorry,” she signs and continues, “they don’t know what they’re missing out on. Let’s keep playing!”

They start playing again, The sudden chill in Snowkit’s stomach slowly warms, fading away as he watches the faces of those around him, as he sees how they’re all enjoying playing. They’re laughing, in a friendly way, even when Mistlekit is the first to get out- she didn’t move fast enough with her paw to complete Snowkit’s porcupine. In the end, Brightpaw wins, with Snowkit in a close second.

She is surprisingly competitive.

They play again, and again, and again. Snowkit wins, Swiftpaw wins, Snow wins, Brightpaw wins, Cloudpaw wins, and Mistlekit wins. Then, tired and happy, Mistlekit has the idea to ask if all five of them could sleep out under the stars just for the night, just to look up at them and appreciate the waxing moon.

Snowkit doesn’t expect Bluestar to agree. This makes him no less happy when she does, remembers the small smile on her mouth when she tells them, “Only for tonight”. Only if it doesn’t negatively affect the apprentice’s training the next day. 

So thats where they fall asleep. Out under the stars, looking up at them. Snowkit doesn’t like the stars any more than he did before, but when he looks at Swiftpaw, who has carefully singled out Thunder’s Star? When he sees Brightpaw find the Star of the Swiftest Star, beholden to the fastest cat in the beginning clans, the first leader of WindClan? When he sees Mistlekit point to the Moon Star, the one Moth Flight watches over, with an expression close to relief in her eyes, but happier?

He can’t find it in himself to ruin their fun. Cloudpaw sits near him, looking up at the stars as well, but Snowkit notices that he watches Swiftpaw and Brightpaw more often than he watches the sky. 

Snow finds himself leaning into Cloudpaw’s side, Cloudpaw smiling down at him, only one sign at the ready. “Camouflage,” is all he says, but Snow gets the joke and snorts his way through a laugh, feeling it in his nose. 

“Yeah.” is all Snow says back, as they resume stargazing with the others. Maybe to them, that’s all it’ll ever be, stargazing. But maybe stargazing can mean a lot, maybe anything can mean a lot when you do it with friends. With family.

  
  


* * *

  
  


It seems like the meat from the second hatchling lasts an even shorter time than the first. Snowkit can scarcely believe it when he realizes that the food is gone, that he has to go hunting again. 

He wonders what he’ll do when the parent is the only hawk left, and shakes the thought away, resolving that he would figure something out. Some way to escape, some way to distract the hawk,  _ something _ . 

Never mind that he hadn’t thought of something by the time he’d finished this one. Never mind that he has trouble thinking of leaving his cave now, for any length of time. Never mind that claustrophobia has become his brother, and he isn’t sure he could handle being out in the open again, exposed, seen. He’s adjusting to the status quo, to a new normal.

He’s not sure what to think of that. But it’s an issue for later, he resolves. What he has to focus on now is surviving. So Snowkit starts up the watch again, eating insects and drinking water from the slight trickle through the wall. 

It isn’t long, this time, before the parent leaves the chick alone to go hunt. Snowkit knows he cannot wait the time it takes to watch, to wait until he is weak again. He needs to move, to take action before it is too late. 

So he leaves his little den. He stops at the edge of the nest, looking into it at a hawk chick- although, chick is less accurate now than it was for the hatchling’s siblings. This creature is larger, and has the beginnings of brown and black feathers, fluffy down spread around the nest from molting. 

And it stares directly at him. Oh, it wavers, it sways from side to side, but it knows he is here, knows what he has done to its siblings, and it may fear, but it is not going to go quietly. 

Snowkit watches the sharp tipped beak, testing his claws by kneading them on the ground below. 

He can’t remember which of them moves first. Just that one moment, he is standing there watching, and the next he is in the air, claws-unsheathed and landing and tumbling. The hawk’s claws tear into his side as its beak finds purchase in his left ear, tearing into it with a cold precision. But he is not defenseless; Snowkit’s own claws are buried in the downy chest feathers of his opponent, leaving long gashes as his hind legs tear at the hawk’s belly. One of his paws, the right front one, slides to the side and he finds it hitting the bone of the hawk’s wing. 

Using the clawhold, he pulls himself upwards, teeth snapping into the side of the hawk’s neck. The hawk’s movements become jerky, and Snowkit is pushed into the brush of the nest, straw and twigs poking into his neck and back- until, suddenly, they aren't. Something slips, shifts, and there is nothing at his upper back, only at the tip of his head. Changing tactics, he uses all of his claws on the hawk, digging desperately to find more clawholds, releasing his bite as he scrambles over his opponent. 

Managing to crawl over it, he lands on the more solid part of the nest and spins immediately. The hawk wavers, trying to turn around- and he sees his chance. Leaping forward, Snowkit bites into the base of the neck, teeth meeting- not quite meeting each other. But they do meet something. He feels a break, and the hawk goes still beneath him, crumbling down rather than over. 

It has, at some point, gotten darker out. He doesn’t spare a moment to look at the sky, starting to drag his prey through the nest to his cave. 

Not until the darkest shadow shows up. Not until the first drips of water hit his back, until what he hopes is water and not blood starts to land on his face. Not until he sees the nest begin to crumble, a set of claws landing on the opposite side before immediately leaping up again. 

That is when he lets go of the hawk. That is when he looks up, winds starting to blow, and sees the parent hawk ascended above him, wings outstretched and claws spread. That is when he stares at their eyes, meeting them unwaveringly. 

Lightning strikes behind them. They become a shadow in the sky, nothing more than something big and dangerous. 

Snowkit’s teeth are bared. His claws are unsheathed. And his muscles may be aching, but they are tense. He is ready to defend his prey, ready to attack and lash out. 

His eyes are still locked with his opponent’s. He will not run.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Night in summer feels just as hot and warm as the day. It is an embrace, not nearly as stifling as the one in the day, but still held as close. It is after they were stargazing, when the apprentices have fallen asleep in a pile and Mistlekit and Snowkit are resting on top of them, leaned back and staring up at the stars still, that they look to each other. There is enough moonlight for them to see.

“Snowkit,” Mistlekit starts, signs, “what warrior name do you want?” 

It is a simple enough question. But also a complicated one. He takes a moment to think, considering.

A warrior name, the name you will have for the rest of your life. The name that defines who you are, that is who you will be; a name you work to earn, a name for what you hope to achieve, a name recognizing who you are and what you have done. There are so many reasons to have meaning in a name. Ultimately, a name is a facet of you, of who you are.

So the question is not nearly as deceptively simple as it may seem. She may as well have asked ‘what will you do with your life?’, ‘what are your most closely held values?’, ‘if you were pushed to it, if you were threatened, if you were held in the teeth of danger- what would you do? what is the furthest action you would take?’. 

Maybe he’s looking too much into it. Sometimes a name is just a name. How much thought did his mother put into choosing Snow for him? Did she know? Did she look at her kit and think, oh, this one will be fragile. This one will easily break. This one will be beautiful, and temporary, and numb. 

Did she know? Snowkit can’t be sure. And here Mistlekit is, still waiting for an answer to her question patiently. He is thankful for her, the way she does not push him to answer before he is ready. 

“I think,” he begins, paws hesitant as he still thinks, “I would like something like Snowbite, or Snowclaw. Something strong.” Not necessarily something angry, not necessarily something vicious. Just something that recognizes he is capable. That he can do what the others think he cannot. 

He watches Mistlekit expectantly for her answer, after she nods. 

“I’m not sure. Mistletoe, Mistlefur, something small. Something quiet. Unseen.” Snowkit isn’t sure how much of that is what she herself believes, and how much of it is the way she is treated being translated into who she thinks she will be. 

“You could be Mistlestorm. Mistleflower, Mistleheart like Lionheart and Goldenflower. Mistleberry.”

Mistlekit seems to think for a moment, and nods. She looks back to him.

“What names do you think the apprentices will get?” 

Snowkit smiles, nodding. “Oh, that one’s easy,” and it shows in his signing too, more confident now, “Swiftheart, or Swiftlight. Swiftthunder, maybe.” 

“And Brightsun, or Brightblaze, or Brightheart for Brightpaw. They’re both kind. They both care, which is more than some of the warriors. I wouldn’t change Darkstripe’s name, he wouldn’t be nice or kind enough for heart or blaze or light.” Mistlekit shakes her head, in support of her sentence.

“No, he’s much too mean for that. I hope Bluestar can see how kind Swiftpaw and Brightpaw are. And Cloudpaw, too.”

“And Cloudpaw too. Cloudheart!”

Snowkit smiles, shaking his head before signing his next sentence. “All three of them — Swiftheart, Brightheart, Cloudheart!”

He sees Mistlekit laughing, smiling. Her paws are shaky in giggles as she continues. “And Fireheart, and Lionheart! We’re all full of heart! Heartclan!”

Snowkit laughs now, eyes almost closed as he feels his purr start up. “I hope so. I’d love to live in Heartclan.”

There’s a moment, where Mistlekit doesn’t move. And then she nods. “Yeah. I would, too.”

There’s a still understanding. That they both don’t see Thunderclan as deserving of the name Heartclan, not right now. Not with Darkstripe and the other warriors, not with Fireheart, not with Bluestar. Snowkit looks back up to the stars, suddenly feeling more alone than he had before the conversation started. Even with Swiftpaw and Brightpaw and Cloudpaw and Mistlekit, each right there within paw’s reach, he is cold. 

And he watches the stars.

* * *

  
  


There is a still moment, where the rain seems to slow to a stop. Snowkit watches the hawk’s wings, unfolding, spreading to let the air through as they direct their claws towards him. He watches the claws spread, catching the light of the lightning around them and pointing at him, brighter than most things he’s ever seen.

The next second has claws meeting his face. They try to close, but he pulls back- they leave slashes, and he cannot tell what is the rain and what is his blood on his fur. Rearing forward, he bites down on the meatier part of the hawk’s leg, holding on as they continue forward on their descent. 

The edge of the nest is rough as he is pulled out of it. As he is dragged onto the stone by his own clamp on the hawk’s leg, by their momentum. 

And he hits the stony ground with a jarring stop, air knocked out of his lungs and mouth gasping, no longer around the hawk’s leg. 

He scrambles, claws scraping the ground as he tries and struggles to get to his feet, panting for air. The hawk is turning, much faster than their child had. Snowkit skirts backwards, the pointy straw of the side of the nest poking into his back once again. 

And here, he makes a decision. 

The hatchling is in the nest, and he cannot carry it while being attacked. The hawk is in front of him, pissed off and feathers fluffed, tail spread and wings puffed. It is raining. And the cave is behind the hawk.

He makes a decision. He springs forward, dancing around the hawk and diving for the entrance to the cave once again, reliving the first day he arrived here. Snowkit sits up in the cave, leaning back against the wall, watching the opening to his little den.

The hawk stares after him. The storm rages on, and the hawk stares after him. Stares at him- eyes meet eyes, and though his vision is turning red from blood from the clawmarks the hawk left on his head, though the hawk is getting soaked through and through, they both stare. 

Snowkit laughs slightly, manically. The cold goes deeper than his bones.  _ I suppose I ended up running, after all. _

* * *

  
  


Snowkit tears his eyes away from the stars when he feels the quiet prod of a paw on his shoulder, moreso of a light tap, questioning. He looks over to Mistlekit, who glances up at the stars and back to him.

“What do you think of Starclan?” This is not the question he was expecting, but he can roll with it. Snowkit shrugs before responding.

“I don’t know. I don’t like being watched all the time. I don’t like it when Starclan does it any more.”

Mistlekit nods, eyes concerned as she responds as well. “I don’t know. It feels kind. That they’re always watching- you never have to worry about being lost. They’re always there. Even when you’re alone, they’re there. So you’re not alone.”

Snowkit struggles for a moment, something caught in his throat even though he hasn’t tried to speak nearly the entire day. “You can be watched without kindness. You can be watched without care, or comfort.” He does not continue, that you can be watched in judgement and in vulnerability. You can be watched in voyeurism, in a bastardized version of support that circles around pain like vultures around a meal, centering in and feasting. 

Mistlekit doesn’t seem to understand, turning confused as she looks up the stars once again.

Then she turns back to him. Her paws are hesitant, again. “I don’t understand. But I don’t need to, to believe you. I trust you. I’m sorry that’s what StarClan means to you.” 

Snowkit swallows, and nods. He shifts closer to Mistlekit, their shoulders touching as he looks up at the stars once again, both of them leaning against Cloudpaw. It isn’t long before the stars turn to comforting darkness as well, as Snowkit drifts off into sleep. It’s easier, with his sister there.

* * *

  
  
  


Shivers wrack his body, running up his spine like curling claws. The storm has not let up, and the little trickle of water down the wall has grown. 

Snowkit is cold. Puffed up like a dandelion, he shivers again and pulls his paws under his body to keep them warm. Most of the water has dried from his pelt, but it still feels spiky, stuck together, melded into bunches with water as the emulsifier. So while he couldn’t say where water still remains on his fur and where it is gone completely, his entire pelt feels like it was dipped in an ice bath, and it is not a feeling he appreciates now. 

He still watches, through the cave opening. He’s watched as the hawk has stood there, sheltering their child from the rain. Watched as the hawk mourns. Watches as the hawk reaches down and plucks a feather from their child’s wing, spreads their own wings, and flies off. 

He could leave now, if he wanted to. He could go and drag the body into his cave to eat. But there’s not really a need for it, right now. Not immediately. It feels disrespectful, to add insult to injury.

Besides, he isn’t sure he has the strength at the moment. With the cold and his injuries, he doesn’t think he could carry anything much larger than a mouse, and the hawk was certainly much larger.

So, in the cold and shivering, Snowkit closes his eyes. He lets himself fall asleep, hoping that his wounds could be even somewhat healed by the time he wakes up. His shoulder injuries from when he was first carried to the mountain have healed at some point along his time here, so he really only has to worry about the new ones.

  
  


When he wakes up, the rain has stopped. He knows this because the trickle of water on his wall has slowed. Because the two piles of bones from the first two hatchlings had apparently flooded at some point, the few bones that are left mixing together and most of them missing down the crevice the trickle of water falls into. He can no longer tell which bones left belonged to which hatchling. Because there is a large shape in front of the cave entryway, blocking half the light inwards. 

He almost can’t bring himself to investigate. Whatever it is will surely leave at some point. But he eventually manages to get himself up, staggering and stumbling to the shape, sniffing it as his eyes are still bleary. He freezes.

It is the hawk. Or — not the hawk, not the one that carried him here and sentenced him to this, but the one that he killed. It is still, unmoving, and placed right in front of the entryway.

He feels something within him shatter. And he falls down with whatever it was, slumping down to the ground, landing among the pieces. He misses his family. He misses Speckletail, and Mistlekit, and Swiftpaw, and Brightpaw, and Cloudpaw, and Goldenflower and Lionheart and Dappletail and Fireheart and Bluestar and Cinderpelt and Yellowfang. He misses all of them, and more. He misses Bramblekit, Tawnykit, even Darkstripe. 

It feels like something has been stabbed just below his heart, but he knows the hawk’s claws didn’t reach deep enough to cause this. It feels like mourning. It feels like missing someone he isn’t sure he’ll ever see again. Like admitting he won’t see them again. Like giving up.

He doesn’t want to give up. He didn’t  _ want _ to give up. But here and now, in the cold and the shivering, in the bright but emotionless sun exposing him for who he is, for where he is alone on a mountaintop… Snowkit feels lost, and alone, and isolated. And he isn’t sure it’s a new feeling, but that doesn’t make it any more tolerable. In fact, it makes it even less so. 

And he admits that to himself, now. His body seems almost to cry on its own, tears wracking his chest like the waves of the sea. And he leans forward, resting his forehead against the side of the bird in front of him, dead and left for him to eat. How pitiful does he have to seem, for even a hawk to allow him to eat their last child? Is this some message from Starclan?

_ Well _ , he thinks, determinedly,  _ even if it is, that doesn’t make me like them any more. I’m sick of it. I’m sick of it. I don’t need their help, I don’t need anybody’s help. And if I have to, if I really have to, I… I can survive on my own.  _

He stays like that for a long while. Filled with anger and sadness and a complicated potion of emotions. He simply stays in the cold, in the isolation, and he cries.

He thinks he needed it. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> More info on the headcanons I have;
> 
> Mistlekit is autistic, and so is Snowkit. Mistlekit also has a primary immunodeficiency, specifically a selective IgA deficiency. Swiftpaw also has the same. This is one of the reasons why they were both in the med cat den at the same time, and became such quick friends (besides that they’re related and knew each other before). Snowkit has a tendency to dissociate. Mistlekit experiences another thing, but it would be spoilers to tell you what, and it’s important to part of the story experience that I don’t tell you. canon sucks when it comes to any form of ableism tbh
> 
> If you draw any part of this story, please let me know and I’ll give you a shoutout in the notes with a link to your art! same with any other kind of fanart, including writing- if you post your writing on here, please use the ‘inspired by’ button! thank you


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